


a million sunrises

by soliloquium



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And racism, Angst, Gay, M/M, Romance, Slight Character Death, a growing up fic, a new style being tested, a slightly more Tame Allen than I'm used to, because there honestly isn't enough of these two, blooming GAY romance, not so vague implications of sex, or 2ps in general, vague implications of slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soliloquium/pseuds/soliloquium
Summary: (Our loneliness is bulletproof.)Allen stumbles through life, through states, with three hundred years of memories hibernating in his bones, trying to find something. - Luciano/Allen





	a million sunrises

PART 1

He wakes up and he's in a cotton field. The scent of dirt and sweat hits him like a gunshot and his hands are small, with red little lines that run like jagged curves of mountains down his palm. All of a sudden, he blinks and he's working, the same scarred fingers endeavoring to tear the spiky bulb from a green shrub. Around him, adults bend over like dark, old, tired trees, meandering backs and wilting branches. Lots of rings under their eyes.  
  
They take him in, put him in a wooden house that creaks and smells like a sea whose name he doesn't know. The empty eyes bore into him like arrows and he flinches, recalling a memory that isn't in his hand. (Or brain, or heart) _Some whore abandoned him, probably, kids cost too much, ya know._ They soften, call him _boy_ with an emphasis and he likes it, leans into it, like a pet name he's never had, hand him bread that tastes like nothing and water that doesn't taste like ocean. Un-salted kindness.  
  
The days stretch on and he spends too much time staring at the sky which stretches even further, it seems, ending where it meets this this white little manor that sits ominously at the edge of his world. Booker pulls his hair, says _boy, keep your eyes on the dirt or you'll get in trouble_ and he (the I in this story) makes a face he doesn't really mean, and Booker laughs. Shoves him into another bush while Martha shakes her head and the days stretch  
  
On  
  
And   
  
On.   
  
Light Blue to lilac skies.  
  


* * *

  
They name him, eventually. Allen, after Booker's father, a ruffle to his hair, a pat on the back, he's still less than half their size and his feet still stumble over half inch tall rocks.   
  
He measures time by the growth of the crops but it's not boring. It's not mundane. Sometimes his body aches with human weakness but other times you can hear Martha sing, sometimes they have jam, or meat. Sometimes it rains, sometimes the clouds are like a grey sheet, sometimes they're non existent but Allen never stops looking up.  
  
Sometimes there's gunshots, angry yelling, distant gods from the white manor and everyone looks at their feet, hearts in their throats, dirt on the skin.   
  
Booker dies, eventually, and Allen does not know why. He holds his hands as he slips away. The calloused, large palm in his will forever haunt him.   
  


* * *

  
Times change and there's a little more freedom, a little less suffering. He's lived fifty years now but his bones stay young though there's something more cynical that hibernates in the crevices of his mind (whispers of a constantly changing landscape. Tsunamis of mountains or prairie land or grass stretching out before him like a sea. A thousand nameless grave stones-).  
  
The days are saturated in sunlight. It's a little town in Alabama- or was it Texas? Nevada?- he's still last name-less, parent-less, but he forces himself into the jigsaw puzzle. Even if he has to erode his edges with sandpaper to fit.   
  
He blends in with the other kids and they do dumb things- light cards on fire, jump in river streams, off of trees- the adrenaline is a different kind of oxygen and he _blends in_. They're kind, even though they don't have much to offer. He's a bright kid, a nice kid, holds the ladder for Mr Herman who paints roofs without being asked, they look over his dirt stains and the blank space of his past. They pass him around like a parcel- they're _that_ kind of neighborhood- a day with the Adams family, a supper table, then the Dickensons tomorrow and he likes it and they like him (which is what he likes most) and then the summer ends.  
  


* * *

Someone carves into a tree- a heart and a name. Sarah Conway and Ernest Winston. "They ain't gonna last," Benson snickers and Allen nods, because nothing does, really.  
  


* * *

  
They begin whispering about his stunted growth. He's like peter pan without the lost boys, without the power. Jonas doesn't hang with them anymore- and it's fine but then before he knows it he's walking away, a sturdy smile on his face, without shoes on. To begin the cycle in a new town.  
  


* * *

Plush lips and a Boston accent. Loose curls in a long ponytail. A loud, crackling laugh like a voluptuous fireplace.  
  
The radio hums an illegible tune to their almost-romance.  
  
He gets flowers, talks to her in hushed whispers, against the wall, a giggle.  
  
His crush is an impatient thaw of his heart.  
  
And then melts like ice when she dies a month later of tuberculosis.  
  
He keeps her blood splattered handkerchief in his pocket forever.

* * *

PART 2

"A Nation?"  
  
"Yes, a nation. America lives in your veins."

* * *

  
He comes into the 20s like a river comes to the ocean and right before he hits sea salt, he meets Alfred at the delta. He's white, energetic and has a smile that says freedom.   
  
He also isn't very focused.  
  
His mouth moves faster than Allen can process and Allens learnt half he says isn't worth processing anyways unless its a penis joke. So he nods along, hiding his boredom behind his beer before he sees him. Hair a shade more devilish than auburn and a Cheshire cat smile. He raises his glass when he notices Allen staring.  
  
Allen gulps.

* * *

He's the realest thing Allen has ever felt and he's a million miles away.  
  
His fingers hold the cigarette with effortless grace, a flicker of blue flame and carbon wafts above them. Allen would bet that his lips would taste like burning.  
  
"Gimme one."  
  
"No."  
  
"What. Why?"  
  
His amber eyes lazily drag themselves to look at him and Allen is pinned to place.   
  
"Tell me, kid," he blows smoke out, leans in, and Allen is so very afraid of what he sees in his eyes, "Have you ever killed anyone?"  
  
"No. Never." He tries to shrug nonchalantly, has to look away before he can get the words out, try to look not so very young and inexperienced, "Never had a reason to, see. But I could. I can shoot."  
  
"Oh can you now?" he's laughing without laughing and Allen knows, feels his face flush but doesn't mind, really, because at least he's here with him. Noticing him, "you should show me one day."  
  
Warmth, spreading through him, like an internal sunrise. "Sure- have you?"  
  
He smiles at Allen again and of course his smile is always more of a smirk, but there's something sobering about it, a million untold tragedies "More times than I can count. There's a lot of death that comes with living. A lot of fighting too. It's a dog world. Eat or get eaten."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Mostly in war. Independence wasn't easy. Outside of it too. You can find death in every dimly lit corner of this world. You stop noticing after a while, stop getting attached to the breakable. Humans are like pets, you need to go in realizing there's an expiration date somewhere."  
  
"Ah," Allen nods in awkward understanding but he doesn't yet, not really, even though the handkerchief burns a scar in his pocket, the callouses of Booker's hand a scar in his mind.  
  
"I should get back, God knows what that piss baby _Italia_ will do without me there," his hand wraps wraps around the motorcycle handle and Allen's heart becomes a deflated balloon and before he can stop to think.  
  
"Take me with you!"

* * *

"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?"  
  
"Never."  
  
"Hold onto me."  


* * *

  
Luciano's body is a warm fire this humid evening and his heart is beating like a broken alarm clock. Above them is a haze of purple, pink, blue, dusty clouds and the road is vast in front of them, further than a sea. Allen's breath hitches.  
  
"This what freedom tastes like," Luciano tells him as they fly, street lights blurring past, people, everything, "we answer to no one."  
  
Allen thinks he might be in love with it.

* * *

  
"So why not a car?"  
  
"Che, takes up too much unnecessary space. Way too bulky to maneuver and park. I like accessible and fast. I like alone."  
  
"But there's space for two."  
  
But Luciano only smiles at him.  


* * *

  
Allen, it would seem, is very bad at guns. Five shots off target and Allen can feel the irritation well up, "This is stupid," he spits out, lowering his hand, "Everyone knows real men kill with their hands."  
  
Lucinao chuckles, "We save our hands for more important things, _amico._ " He helps Allen from behind, hands on his hands. Still a fireplace. "Your wrists are too loose. Body too tense. Focus on the target more." His breath tickles his ear.  
  
A bang latter and there's a hole in the bulls-eye.  


* * *

The bare chest on top of him is made of golden sun and Allen is a greedy, greedy flower.   
  
He's had sex before but it was never like this, never like this and they've thrown away he decorum, the niceties so now Allen is angry and raw and then Luci does something with his hips that make him snap his head back so hard he sees the stars. Sweat and moans. Scratches down a back, bruises written on skin like a home address, a signature, like _mine_ and his smile. His smile.   
  
He's filling him up with his rays and Allen can only take so much.   
  
They don't hold hands so his fingers tangle in the bed sheet, back arches, his predatory golden eyes staring down and him and-  
  
"G-god, what are you-"  
  


* * *

They do it a few times more in the a lonely apartment in Brooklyn. Spend a few more days playing at normalcy.  
  
Luci stares at the wall too much and eventually his mouth opens, "I have to leave."  


* * *

PART 3  


Its Monsoon season and Allen doesn't really care if his clothes get wet. He feels bitter and naive and Luciano doesn't return any calls and his wall now has a fist shaped dent in it.   
  
It happens slowly; the dissolve. The noise beats the silence, the alcohol buzz beats the words, the women beat the empty bed.   
  
It's not even about fucking Luciano, it's about the void. The hand he doesn't have to hold. In every stupid corner there's families. Mother, Father, Son, Daughter, taking pictures for picture albums that they'll moon over during Christmas as they sit next to a fireplace and eat home cooking.   
  
Allen tries to make turkey once. The end result is a visit by a fire department. Allen decides to stay in his lane.   
  
Today, he sits on a swing at the park, looks at everyone, imagines being in their stupidly domesticated places before looking up and realizing its 9pm.  
  
Well fuck.  


* * *

  
A lot goes by. Franklin D Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Elvis, John F Kennedy, Amelia Earhart, names on TV, history written into Allen's palms that still have lines like jagged mountains.  
  
He kills his first person during a rainy Sunday evening. A botched knife robbery. Luci was right. There are better uses for hands.  
  
He gets a tattoo too, wants the pain to mean something. The words ACHE in big bold letters on his left shoulder blade.  


* * *

  
A muddy dog is the first thing to make him feel something in a long time. It snuffles at his foot, its dirty, wet snout getting sludge all over his pant leg and Allen doesn't mind. He leans down, ruffles him by his ears and thinks _you're alone too, aren't you?_ but doesn't say that out loud because wow, what a cliche. Instead, he takes the dog home and names him Spork.   
  
Then comes Duncan and Gubby and Cat and eventually Allen has to threaten Alfred into getting him the paper work and money for a shelter by saying he'll dye his eyebrows black at night when he's sleeping.   
  
Its all very wholesome.

* * *

Luci comes back and its   
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hey."  
  
"I didn't miss you, dickwad."  
  
"Neither did I, you little bitch."  


* * *

They hold hands now. Which as much as a confession as he'll get from luci. He's tried.

  
("But you secretly like me."

  
"No, you just have an impeccable ass."

  
"Which is internalized homophobia for 'you like me'."

  
"Do you not speak English."

"With you? I only speak _love._ "

  
"I will take your penis, put it in a jar of gasoline and set it on fire if you say that word in my presence again. Don't test me. I have very easy access to the inside of your pants."

  
"Hot.")  
  
It still rains a lot, but that's fine. Luci's a fireplace, remember? and his grip on him is impossibly tight.   
  
Luci notices his looks, the wistful gazes at the humans and kicks him. Leans in.   
  
"Don't look at them. Look at me. Much prettier view."  
  
They walk on. The rain doesn't dissipate but the sunrise is still there, it's still beautiful and it stretches before them; a glorious future of yellow.  
  
("Ok but just so we're clear. I'm the eye candy in this relationship.")

**Author's Note:**

> sooo, this was a doozy to make. I'm not ENTIRELY sure if I liked the style of this but lol, here it is.
> 
> Everything is really vague and without direct speech because that's how Allen remembers it. Hazy and distant. But as it goes on, you'll notice the narrative is far more specific and, y'know, present because it's so much more recent.
> 
> There's also a little symbolism with the time of day. In the beginning of the fic, it's noon, then when he meets Luci its evening, when he hits rock bottom its night. And at the end its sunrise, it's a new beginning. So you see how the title is a little on the nose :^)
> 
> Comments & kudos greatly appreciated.


End file.
